Chambers_s Journal of Popular Literature_ Science_ and Art_ fifth series_ no. 153_ vol. III_ December 4_ 1886 Various 25877 downloads.pdf

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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth
series, no. 153, vol. III, December 4, 1886

Author: Various

Release date: April 22, 2025 [eBook #75937]

Language: English

Original publication: Edinburgh: William and Robert Chambers, 1853

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S
JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH
SERIES, NO. 153, VOL. III, DECEMBER 4, 1886 ***

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND
ART.

CONTENTS
‘ON GUARD’ AT WINDSOR CASTLE.
BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.
THE ORDNANCE SURVEY, ITS PAST AND FUTURE.
WANTED, A CLUE.
SOME ANECDOTES OF AMERICAN CHILDREN.
A STRANGE LOVE AFFAIR.
MEHALAH.

No. 153.—Vol. III. SATURDAY, DECEMBER 4, 1886. Price 1½d.

‘ON GUARD’ AT WINDSOR CASTLE.
Though the honour implied in the protection of the principal residence of
the sovereign is considerable, military duty at Windsor is not by any means
held in high estimation by soldiers, that is to say by those whose lot it is to
perform the ordinary functions of ‘sentry-go’ around the castle. In a word,
the duty is ‘hard.’ This term, applied to peace-time soldiering, means that
the men have few ‘nights in bed’—the criterion by which such service is
invariably judged. At some stations the rank and file have as many as
twenty of these coveted consecutive nights in barracks; but at Windsor the
present writer has at times enjoyed the honour of passing every third night
on the exposed terraces of the castle; and as the ‘Queen’s Regulations’ lay
particular stress on each soldier having at least one ‘night in bed’ before
going on guard, it will be granted that the Windsor duty is not unjustly
considered somewhat trying. Perhaps a glimpse at the inner life of the
Castle-guard may interest some readers.
The armed party, which consists of some fifty soldiers, is under the
command of an officer, assisted by two sergeants, together with as many
corporals, and it enters upon its twenty-four hours’ tour of duty in the
forenoon. A drummer-boy also ‘mounts:’ his chief employment being to go
messages and to carry the lantern used in making the nocturnal ‘rounds.’
When the guard marches into the lower ward of the castle, after having in
its progress considerably enlivened the quiet streets of Windsor, the ‘old’
guard is formally relieved, and the men not immediately required as
sentinels take possession of the guardroom—a large, comparatively modern
building, in the vicinity of the antique Curfew Tower. With a view,
probably, to the preservation of discipline, the two sergeants are provided
with a ‘bunk,’ a small portion of the area of the apartment partitioned off,
and fitted with a miniature guardbed. Here they often employ their time in
the making up of pay-lists, duty-rosters,[1] and the like. On entering the
guardroom, the privates quickly divest themselves of their valises and
folded greatcoats; for it is now admitted by the authorities that a sentry may
march about quite ‘steadily’ without being constantly burdened with his kit.
The valises are suspended from rows of pegs furnished for this purpose; and

—what might in fine weather seem surprising—the greatcoats set free from
their tightly buckled straps. Ostensibly, the ‘loose’ coats are necessary to
spread out on the guardbed, so as to slightly soften that uneasy couch, as
well as to prevent dust, which may there have lodged, from adhering to the
tunics of recumbent guardsmen. But the real reason for shaking out these
garments frequently is to allow them to dry, because in many cases they
have been liberally sprinkled with water before being buckled up, to insure
a more compact ‘fold.’
A stranger to things military, on surreptitiously glancing in at the
guardroom door early in the day, and while the sentry’s back was turned,
would notice a large number of white basins drawn up on the tables and
‘dressed’ with extraordinary precision. These vessels are placed in position
for the reception of the soup, which is served shortly before mid-day, and
they bring us to the important subject of the culinary department. There are
four cooks connected with the castle guard. One is ‘corporal of the cooks;’
another is ‘standing’ (or permanent) cook; and the remaining two are
merely sent daily on ‘fatigue’ from the barracks. The provisions are
conveyed to the castle in a barrow of peculiar construction, and deposited in
the cookhouse—a place not at all resembling a conventional kitchen, but
both in situation and appearance very like the dungeons one is occasionally
introduced to when visiting ancient strongholds. In this dismal region are
capacious ‘coppers,’ in any one of which soup, beef, vegetables, or tea can
be prepared.
To return, however, to the proceedings of the members of the guard. When
they have satisfactorily arranged their equipments and, above all,
thoroughly repolished their boots, a corporal calls for silence. This
obtained, he begins to make out the duty-roll, or ‘detail’ as it is usually
termed, of the sentries; and when the detail is completed, he affixes to the
wall in a primitive fashion—with pieces of damped ration bread—a short
abstract, in which the men are represented by figures. To the uninitiated
observer, the purport of this might be rather puzzling. After a particular
numeral, for example, is inscribed the word ‘Cocoa.’ The soldier to whom it
refers has assigned to him the task of preparing the beverage named, which
is issued to the guard at midnight—the ‘standing’ cook having the privilege
of every night in bed. The abstract is attentively perused by the men, who
sometimes take private memoranda of the parts of its contents that apply to

them individually. Not unfrequently this is done with a pencil on their
pipeclayed gun-slings, in such a position as not to be apparent to the
inspecting officer.
As soon as every one has mastered the corporal’s hieroglyphics, a sergeant
issues from the bunk already alluded to, bearing the ‘order-board,’ which is
of rather portentous dimensions. As the great majority of the men know the
regulations off by heart, they are read in a slightly hasty and perfunctory
manner; though, with true military exactness, not a word is omitted. There
is little in the list of orders that calls for special remark; but one paragraph
is, we imagine, almost if not quite unknown elsewhere; it relates to the
conduct of the corporals when marching round the ‘reliefs.’ If, when so
marching along with his men, Her Majesty the Queen should meet or pass
the party, the non-commissioned officer is directed to halt his subordinates,
draw them up in ‘open order,’ and see that the appropriate salute is
rendered. The curious order which prohibits soldiers from ‘working at their
trade while on guard’ is of course represented on the board; but as a matter
of fact, some men pass a good deal of their spare time in the not very
martial occupation of making beadwork pincushions. These articles,
however, command somewhat tempting prices, especially in the metropolis.
While the men of the guard have thus been engaged, the commandant has
taken over his quarters, adjacent to the guardroom, and reached by a pretty
long stone stair, well worn by the iron-shod heels of many generations of
corporals and drummer-boys. Soon after mounting duty, the officer is joined
by his servant, who brings with him a portmanteau containing various
comforts. A cooking department is also required in the case of the officer,
whose meals, however, are conveyed to him by the messmen from barracks.
Before long, the steps of a corporal ascending the stair warn the captain of
the guard that the hour approaches for him to march off the ‘second relief.’
The ‘posts’ are numerous. One sentinel paces about in front of the
guardroom, much of his attention being devoted to saluting the Knights
Pensioners of Windsor, who reside in the lower ward of the castle. Another
soldier has ample leisure to examine the architectural features of the
celebrated Round Tower, at the base of which he is stationed. A third takes
post on the North Terrace, where a splendid prospect enlivens the monotony
of his vigil, and whence, if of a philological turn, he can contemplate the
windings of the river which are said to have given the place the name Wind-

shore, or Windsor. Or, if historically inclined, he may recollect that the
North Terrace was once the favourite promenade, for an hour before dinner,
of Queen Elizabeth, to whom it is alleged the English soldier was originally
indebted for his daily ration of beef. Then there are two sentries on the
eastern façade of the castle. These men are in close proximity to the royal
apartments. By night, they do not challenge in the ordinary manner, but by
two stamps with the right foot; and they are charged to pronounce the words
‘All’s well’ in an undertone. The grand entrance to the upper ward of the
castle is in the keeping of a ‘double’ sentry, as is also a gate near at hand;
and there are several other sentry-posts which it would be tedious to visit in
detail. In each sentry-box hangs a heavy watchcoat, which the soldier may
put on when he thinks fit, and of the large buttons on this cloak he is
expected to take sedulous care.
By night, the sentinels around Windsor Castle are slightly augmented in
number; but it will only be necessary here to notice one nightpost, the
cloisters of St George’s Chapel. This is a somewhat eerie quarter in the
small-hours. There is a military tradition to the effect that the cloisters are
occasionally visited by shadowy and unearthly forms, to the perturbation of
young soldiers. The writer has had no experience of these supernatural
visitants; but he has noticed, when marching round the relief, an unusual
alacrity on the part of some men to quit the cloisters.
While the men on guard are engaged in their usual routine, the officer is not
altogether idle; he inspects and marches off the relieving detachments at
intervals of two hours; and in the afternoon visits the sentries, taking pains
to ascertain that they are familiar with their instructions. At eleven o’clock
at night he makes his ‘rounds,’ preceded by the drummer-boy with his
lantern, as well as by a corporal bearing a bunch of keys, wherewith to open
a number of iron gates in and near the castle; and when the rounds return to
the lower ward, the captain of the guard is at liberty to retire for the night.
In the morning, such members of the guard as may be slumbering are
roused by the arrival of the cooking-party; and soon afterwards the officer’s
man, with his portmanteau, appears on the scene. Before long, a sergeant
comes forth from the ‘bunk,’ uttering the mandate: ‘Get these coats folded.’
During the period when the equipments are being operated upon, the senior
sergeant is engaged on the ‘guard report.’ One important part of this is
already in print upon the form, and it commences by saying that ‘Nothing

extraordinary has occurred during my tour of duty.’ When the sergeant has
carefully finished the report, he takes it to the officer for signature, and on
his return calls out: ‘Fall-in the guard.’ The men, who are already fully
accoutred, promptly form-up outside the guardroom; and the commandant
is seen descending the stair from his quarters. Then the ‘new’ guard arrives.
In the course of half an hour, the first stroke bestowed by the big-drummer
on his instrument announces to the ‘old’ guard that their tour of duty is at an
end.

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.
BY FRED. M. WHITE.

IN TWENTY CHAPTERS.—CHAP. XVII.

When Maxwell came to himself it was broad daylight. He was lying upon a
straw mattress in a small room, containing no furniture besides the rude
bed; and as he looked up, he could see the rafters, black with dirt and the
smoke of ages. The place was partly a house, partly a hut. Gradually, as
recollection came back to him, he remembered the events of the previous
night, wondering vaguely why he had been selected as a victim for attack,
and what brought him here. By the clear sound of voices and the rush of
water, he judged himself to be in the country. He had no consciousness of
fear, so he rose, and throwing open the heavy door, looked out. Towering
away above his head were the snow-capped peaks of mountains, and below
him the spreading valley of the Campagna. Wood upon wood was piled up
before him, all aglow with bright sunlight, the green leaves whispering and
trembling in the breeze. The hut was built on a long rocky plateau,
approached by a narrow winding path, and ending in a steep precipice of
two hundred feet, and backed up behind by almost perpendicular rocks,
fringed and crowned by trees. In spite of his position, Maxwell drew a long
breath of delight; the perfect beauty of the scene thrilled him, and appealed
to his artistic soul and love of the beautiful. For some time he gazed upon
the panorama, perfectly oblivious to his position, till gradually the sound of
voices borne upon the wind came to his ears. He walked to the side of the
hut and looked around.
Seated upon the short springy turf, in every picturesque and comfortable
position the ingenuity of each could contrive, were four men, evidently, to
Maxwell’s experienced eye, banditti. They seemed peacefully inclined now,
as they lounged there in the bright sunshine smoking, and renewing the
everlasting papilito, without which no such gentry are complete, either in
the pages of fiction or as portrayed upon the modern stage. With the
exception of one, evidently the leader, there was nothing gorgeous in their

costume, it being the usual attire of the mountaineers; but the long carabines
lying by their sides and the short daggers in their waistbands spoke of their
occupation. Maxwell began to scent an adventure and enjoy the feeling; it
would only mean the outlay of a few pounds, a little captivity; but when he
approached nearer, and saw each bearing on some part of his person the
gold moidore, his heart beat a trifle faster as he stepped forward and
confronted the group.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he asked, in the best Italian at his command.
‘I suppose it is merely a question of ransom. But it is useless to put the
figure too high. Come, what is the amount?’
The brigands looked to each other in admiration of this coolness. Presently,
the leader removed his cigarette from his mouth and spoke: ‘You have your
watch, signor, and papers; you have your rings and purse. It is not our rule
to forget these with an ordinary prisoner.’
Maxwell felt in his pocket, and, surely enough, his valuables were perfectly
safe—nothing missing, even to his sketch-book. For the first time, he began
to experience a sensation of fear. ‘Then, if plunder is not your object, why
am I detained?’
‘Plunder is not a nice word to ears polite, signor,’ the leader replied with a
dark scowl. ‘You are detained by orders. To hear, with us, is to obey. You
will remain here during our pleasure.’
‘But suppose I refuse to remain?’
Without rising, the brigand turned on his side and pointed towards the sheer
precipice, and then to the wall behind; with a gesture he indicated the
narrow winding path, the only means of exit, and smiled ironically. ‘You
may go; there is nothing to prevent you,’ he said; ‘but before you were half-
way down the path yonder, you would be the target for a score of bullets,
and we do not often fail.’
Maxwell was considerably impressed by this cool display; and indeed,
when he considered the matter calmly, there appeared no prospect of
immediate escape. Remonstrances or threats would be equally unavailing,
and he determined to make the best of his position. ‘Perhaps you would not
mind telling me why I am here, and by whose orders you have arrested me.
It would be some slight consolation to know how long I am to stay. I am

anxious to know this,’ he continued, ‘because I am afraid your mountain air,
exhilarating as it is, will not suit me.’
The group burst into loud laughter at this little humour: it was a kind of wit
they were in a position to appreciate.
‘It is impossible to say, signor. We only obey orders; we can only wait for
further instructions as regards your welfare—or otherwise. We were told to
bring one Maxwell here, and lo! we have done it.’
‘I see you are brothers of the League,’ Maxwell replied; ‘and for some act
of omission or commission I am detained here. You can at least tell me by
whose orders you do this.’
‘Signor, they say you are a traitor to our Order.’
‘That I am not!’ Maxwell cried indignantly. ‘Tell me why I am here, and at
whose orders. There is some mistake here.’
‘Not on our part, signor. The instructions came from London. I only
received them last night. You will be well treated here, provided you do not
make any attempts to escape. For the time, you are our guest, and as such,
the best I have is at your disposal. If orders come to release you, we shall
conduct you to Rome. We shall do everything in our power to serve you. If,
on the other hand, you are tried in the balance and found wanting, we shall
not fail to do our duty.’ He said these last words sternly, in contrast to the
polite, grave manner with which he uttered the first part of his speech.
Maxwell had perception enough to comprehend his meaning. ‘You mean
that I should have to die,’ he observed. ‘I suppose it would be a matter of
the utmost indifference to you, either way?’
‘As a matter of duty, signor, yes,’ he answered gravely; ‘though I do not
wish to see a brave man die; but if the mandate came to that effect, I must
obey. There is no refusing the word of the League.’
‘Then I really am a prisoner of the League,’ Maxwell returned bitterly.
‘Well, the cause of liberty must be in a bad way, when the very members of
the League treat brothers as I have been treated.’
‘Ah, it is a fine word liberty,’ the brigand chief replied sardonically. ‘It is a
good phrase to put into men’s mouths; but there can be no freedom where
the shadow of the sword dwells upon the land. Even Italy herself has

suffered, as she will again. Perfect liberty and perfect freedom can only be
founded upon the doctrine of universal love.’
By this time, Maxwell and the chief had drawn a little aside from the others.
The artist looked in his companion’s face, and noted the air of sorrow there.
It was a fine manly countenance, haughty and handsome, though the dark
eyes were somewhat sombre now. Maxwell, with his cosmopolitan instinct,
was drawn towards this man, who had a history written on his brow. ‘You,
too, have suffered,’ he said gently.
‘Suffered!’ the brigand echoed. ‘Yes, Englishman, I have suffered, and not
more from the Austrian yoke than the cruelties of my own countrymen.
There will be no true liberty here while a stiletto remains in an Italian’s
belt.’
‘I suppose not,’ Maxwell mused. ‘These Societies seem to me a gigantic
farce. Would that I had remained quietly at home, and let empires manage
their own affairs. And Salvarini warned me too.’
‘Salvarini! What do you know of him?’ the chief exclaimed.
‘Nothing but what is good and noble, everything to make one proud to call
him friend.—Do you know him too?’
‘He is my brother,’ the chief replied quietly.—‘You look surprised to find
that a relative of Luigi should pursue such a profession as mine. Yes, he is
my brother—the brother of an outlaw, upon whose head a price has been
put by the state. I am known to men as Paulo Lucci.’
Maxwell started. The man sitting calmly by his side was the most famous
and daring bandit chief of his time. Provinces rang with his fame, and the
stories of his dashing exploits resounded far and near. Even away in the
distant Apennines, the villagers sat round the winter firesides and
discoursed of this man with bated breath, and children trembled in their
beds at the mere thought of his name. He laughed scornfully now as he
noted Maxwell’s startled look.
‘I am so very terrible,’ he continued, ‘that my very name strikes terror to
you! Bah! you have been listening to the old women’s tales of my atrocities,
about the tortures my victims undergo, and the thousand-and-one lies
people are fond of telling about me. I can understand Luigi did not tell you I
was his brother; I am not a relative to be proud of.’

‘He is in total ignorance of your identity. That I do know.—I wonder at you
choosing such a life,’ Maxwell put in boldly. ‘With your daring, you would
have made fame as a soldier; any path of life you had chosen would have
brought you honour; but now’——
‘But now I am an outlaw,’ Paulo Salvarini interrupted. ‘And why? If you
will listen, I will tell you my story in a few words.’
Maxwell threw himself upon the grass by the other’s side and composed
himself to listen.
‘If you will look below you,’ the chief commenced, and pointing with his
finger across the distant landscape, ‘you will see the sun shining upon a
house-top. I can see the light reflected from it now. That house was once my
home. I like sometimes to sit here and think of those days when Gillana and
I were happy there—that is ten years ago now. I had done my best for my
country; I had fought for her, and I retired to this peaceful spot with the
woman of my heart, to live in peace, as I hoped, for the rest of my life. But
the fiend of Liberty was abroad. My wife’s father, an aged man, was
accused of complicity in political crimes, and one day, when I was absent,
they came to arrest him. My wife clung to him, and one of the brutal
soldiery struck her down with the butt of his rifle; I came in time to see that,
for my blood was on fire, and I did not hesitate. You can understand the
rest. My wife was killed, actually murdered by that foul blow. But I had my
revenge. When I crossed the threshold of my house, on my flight to the
mountains, I left three dead behind me, and another, the officer, wounded
sore. He recovered, I afterwards heard; but some day we shall meet.’
He stopped abruptly, shaking in every limb from the violence of his
emotion, his sombre eyes turned towards the spot where the sun shone upon
the roof-tops of what was once a peaceful homestead.
‘Luigi can only guess at this,’ the speaker continued. ‘To him I have been
dead for years; indeed, I do not know what makes me tell you now, only
that you surprised me, and I like to hear a little news of him.’
‘I have heard this history before,’ Maxwell observed. ‘It is five years ago
now; but I am not likely to forget it. Still, you cannot enjoy this life. It is
wild and exciting, no doubt; but your companions’——

‘I live for revenge,’ Salvarini exclaimed sternly. ‘I am waiting to meet the
brutal officer who ordered his follower to strike down my wife. I have
waited long; but the time will come at length, and then, heaven help the
man called Hector le Gautier!’
‘Le Gautier!’ Maxwell exclaimed. ‘He, an Italian officer! Why, he is at
present Head Centre of the Brotherhood in London. He and your brethren
are bosom friends. He was even present at the time when Luigi told us your
sad history. Surely he cannot know; and yet I trusted him too. Signor
Salvarini, you bewilder me.’
The outlaw laughed loud and long; but the mirth was strained, and jarred
harshly upon the listener. ‘And that fiend is a friend of Luigi’s! Strange
things happen in these times. Beware, Signor Maxwell—beware of that
man, for he will work you mischief yet. It was by his orders you were
arrested. He knows me by name, and as one of the Brotherhood only, so I
did his bidding.’
‘Strange! And yet I have done him no harm.’
‘Not that you are aware of, perhaps. Still, no doubt you have crossed his
path in some way. If I have a command in the morning to lead you out
yonder to face a dozen rifles, I shall not be surprised.’
‘And you would countenance such murder?’
‘This morning, yes. Now, I am doubtful. You are my brother’s friend; I am
Le Gautier’s enemy; I do not wish to help him.’
Three days passed uneventfully by, at the end of which time Maxwell had
become a great favourite with the outlaw band. Following the lead of their
chief, they treated him with every kindness; nor was he in his turn inclined
to resent his captivity or chafe at this delay. His chief fear was for Enid; for
Paulo Salvarini, though he was inclined to allow his prisoner every latitude,
was firm upon the point of communication with the outer world; for, as he
pointed out, he might after all be guilty of some great treachery to the
League, and in that case must be answerable for anything that happened.
So the days passed on in that quiet spot, no further news coming to him till
the morning of the fourth day. Then he was sitting at the door of his hut,
watching the sunrise glowing on the distant hills, when Salvarini
approached him, his face perturbed, and his whole manner agitated. ‘You

are in danger,’ he whispered. ‘The orders have come, and you are
proclaimed traitor. The men are mad against you, and declare you shall be
brought out for instant execution. Ah! you have only seen the best side of
their character; you have not seen them hungry for blood.’
‘Do they want to murder me?’ Maxwell exclaimed. ‘Cannot you’——
‘I am powerless now,’ Salvarini interrupted. ‘I will do what I can; but I fear
nothing can save you now.’
‘Do not be afraid,’ said a calm voice behind. ‘I shall save him!’
‘Isodore!’
‘Yes, Paulo Lucci; it is I.’
Maxwell looked up, and saw the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in
his life. For a moment he could only gaze in rapt astonishment. This, then,
was the Empress of the League—the woman Visci had mentioned, whose
lightest word could free his feet and clear his path for ever.
‘You have come in time,’ Salvarini said with a low obeisance. ‘An hour
hence and our prisoner would have been no more.’
‘I am always in time,’ Isodore replied quietly.—‘I have come to deliver you
from a great danger,’ she continued, turning to Maxwell. ‘Come; we must
be in Rome at once, and away, or we may yet be too late. Hark! Are the
wolves clamouring for their prey already? We shall see.’
It was light now, and from the plateau beyond came the hoarse yells and
cries for revenge from the brigands. On they came towards the hut,
clamouring for blood, and mad with the heat of passion. They rushed in,
seized Maxwell, and led him out on to the level grass, while six of the party
stepped back a few paces and cocked their rifles. The whole thing was so
sudden that Lucci and Isodore were totally unprepared to resist. But the girl
roused herself now, and quitting the hut, swept across the open space and
placed herself in front of Maxwell.
‘Drop your arms!’ she cried. ‘Are you mad, that you do this thing? Ground
your rifles, or you shall pay dearly for this indignity.’
Appalled by her gestures and the dignity of her voice, the desperadoes
hesitated for a moment, and then one, more daring than the rest, raised his

carabine to the shoulder, standing in the act of firing.
‘You may fire,’ Isodore cried. ‘Fire! and every hair of my head shall be
avenged for by a life! Fire! and then pray for the mercy of heaven, for you
shall not meet with any from the hand of man!’
The desperate men were amazed by this beauty and daring, the audacity of
which appealed to their rude instinct. One by one they dropped their
firearms, and stood looking sullenly in the direction of the scornful woman,
standing there without a particle of fear in her eyes.
‘Who are you,’ cried one bolder than the rest—‘who are you, that come
between us and justice?’
They all took up the cry, and bade her stand aside.
‘If she falls, I fall!’ Lucci exclaimed in a firm steady voice. ‘Go on your
knees, and ask for pardon.—Madam,’ he continued, falling upon one knee,
‘I did not think my followers would have shown such scant courtesy to
Isodore.’
At the very mention of her name, a change came over the mutineers. One
by one they dropped their firearms, and came forward humbly to implore
her forgiveness for their rashness, but she waved them aside.
Long and earnestly the three talked together, listening to the revelation of
Le Gautier’s treachery, and how the final act was about to be played over
there in England: how Le Gautier had confessed his treachery, and how, out
of his own mouth, he was going to be convicted. Silently and slowly they
wound their way down the mountain path, under Lucci’s guidance, out on
to the plains, beyond which the sun lighted upon the house-tops of distant
Rome. When they had got so far, Isodore held out her hand to the guide.
‘Good-bye. It will not be safe for you to come any farther,’ she said. ‘Rest
assured, in the general reckoning your account shall not be forgotten.’
‘It will not,’ Lucci answered sternly. ‘I shall see to that myself. By the time
you reach England, I shall be there too.—Nay, do not strive to dissuade me.
I do not take my revenge from another hand. I shall run a great risk; but,
mark me, when the time comes, I shall be there!’ Without another word he
disappeared; and Isodore and Maxwell walked on towards the Eternal City

both wrapped in their own thoughts. Mile after mile passed on thus, ere
Maxwell broke the silence.
‘Do you think he will keep his word?’ he said half timidly.
‘Who, Lucci? Yes; he will keep his word; nothing but death will prevent
that.—And now, you and I must get back to England without a moment’s
loss of time.’
‘I cannot say how grateful I am,’ Maxwell said earnestly. ‘If it had not been
for your bravery and courage’—— He stopped and shuddered; the
contemplation of what might have been was horrible.
Isodore smiled a little unsteadily in answer to these words. ‘I owe you a
debt of gratitude,’ she replied. ‘My memory serves me well. I was not going
to allow you to die, when you would have perished rather than raise a hand
against Carlo Visci.’
‘Indeed, you only do me justice. I would have died first.’
‘I know it; and I thank you for your kindness to him at the last. You were
with him when he died. Things could not have been better. He was always
fond of you. For that, I am grateful.’
‘But I do not understand,’ Maxwell faltered. ‘He did not know you except
by reputation.’
‘I think you are mistaken. Am I so changed that you do not recognise your
friend Genevieve?’
‘Genevieve! You? Am I dreaming?’
‘Yes; I am Genevieve; though much changed and altered from those happy
old days when you used to come to the Villa Mattio. You wonder why I am
here now—why I left my home. Cannot you guess that Le Gautier was at
the bottom of it?’
‘But he professed not to know you; he’——
‘Yes, he professed to be a friend of yours. But until I give you permission to
speak, not a word that Isodore and Genevieve are one and the same.’
‘My lips are sealed. I leave everything in your hands.’

‘And cannot you guess why you have incurred Le Gautier’s enmity?—No?
Simply, because he aspires to the hand of Enid Charteris.—You need not
start,’ Isodore continued, laying her hand upon the listener’s arm. ‘You have
no cause for anxiety. It will never be!’
‘Never, while I can prevent it!’ Maxwell cried warmly.
‘It is impossible. He has a wife already.’
Only tarrying for one mournful hour to visit the cemetery where lay Carlo
Visci’s quiet grave, Isodore and Maxwell made their way, but not together,
to England, as fast as steam could carry them.

THE ORDNANCE SURVEY, ITS PAST AND
FUTURE.
The Ordnance Survey is now a hundred years old, and it is expected,
according to present arrangements, to be finished in 1890. That, in one
sense, is a considerable time to look forward to; but there are several knotty
and important questions connected with the completion of this great
scientific enterprise which it would be well duly to weigh and consider
beforehand. A suitable opportunity for calling attention to the results of this
national undertaking is afforded by the publication of a popularly written
volume, The Ordnance Survey of the United Kingdom (Blackwood & Sons),
by Lieutenant-Colonel T. P. White of the Royal Engineers, the executive
officer of the Survey. An additional reason for noticing the matter at this
stage may also be found in the amount of ignorance which prevails on the
subject. To most persons, the Ordnance Survey only means some kind of
measuring of the land; but they have little idea of the methods adopted for
the purpose, of the multifarious ends served by the publication of the maps,
of the difficulties which had to be overcome, and of the marvellous and
unexampled accuracy with which the work has been carried on. There are
indeed few things of which as a nation we may feel more proud than the
accomplishment of this gigantic work; a noble illustration and monument of
persistent perseverance, of infinite ingenuity of resource, and of general
engineering skill.
A beginning was made, according to Colonel White, with the primary
triangulation for the Survey in 1784 (the Annual Report says 1791), under
the charge of General Roy, an able scientific officer, who had been
associated with General Watson, thirty-six years before, in a survey of the
Highlands made for military reasons, after the crushing of the rebellion of
1745. The idea of a scientific survey of the whole kingdom was first mooted
in 1763; but for various reasons, nothing was done till twenty-one years
later, when, in response to a proposal from the French government to
connect the system of triangulation already existing in France with that
about to be set on foot here, the work was at last begun. Hounslow Heath

was selected as the base-line of that great system which has now overspread
the land. It may not be unnecessary here to remark that the work of a
cadastral survey is carried on by a series of triangles proceeding from a
base-line—that is, a space of level ground usually about five miles long,
which is measured by chain in the most exact manner—this forming the
nucleus. From the two ends of this measured space a triangle is formed to
some point at a distance, and the length of the two unknown sides computed
by trigonometry. From this primary triangle, other triangles are formed, and
calculated similarly, until there is a series of these like a network all over
the country. Four or five other base-lines were also measured for verifying
the correctness of the calculations—hence called ‘bases of verification’—
notably that on Salisbury Plain, on which as a foundation the principal
triangulation of the kingdom was eventually to rest.
It forms a remarkable illustration of the care and exactness with which the
work has been done that the lengths of these base-lines calculated from the
original one by trigonometry through all the intervening triangles, has been
found to coincide within four inches with the lengths as actually measured
by chain. A result like this reminds one of the yearly balancing by the
system of double entry of the transactions of a great bank with branches all
over the country, and where the totals on both sides, amounting to many
millions, square to a farthing. These primary triangles, some of them
containing sides one hundred miles long, are broken up into smaller ones,
and these again subdivided; the latter, with sides from one to two miles,
being then measured in the ordinary way by the surveyors. We have thus,
from one or two measured spaces—it might be from one only—a
triangulation worked out of the whole country, and its area and the relative
geographical position of every spot on its surface fixed for all time. This
principal triangulation, as it is called, was completed in 1852. What has
been going on since is survey work.
The battle of the scales is another noteworthy point in the history of the
Survey. When it was resolved, about the close of the last century, to publish
maps based on the triangulation, the scale of one inch to a mile was
adopted, and this embraced all England and Wales south of Yorkshire and
Lancashire, these two counties being surveyed about 1840 on the six-inch
scale, which had been adopted for the Irish Survey, and was now introduced
into England. Afterwards, the scale was enlarged to twenty-five inches to a

mile, and the four northern counties of England were so surveyed and
published. It was then agreed to re-survey all those counties which had been
done on the one-inch system. Some of these are completed, while others are
still in progress.
In Scotland, the course of the Survey has not run very smoothly. The
triangulatory work was begun in 1809, and went on with intermissions till
1823, when it was stopped for fifteen years, to allow the Irish Survey to be
taken up. The latter was begun in 1824, and finished in 1842. But six-inch
county maps have now been published of the whole of Scotland, one-inch
maps of nearly the whole, and those on the twenty-five-inch scale also, with
the exception of Midlothian, Fife, Haddington, Kinross, Kirkcudbright,
Wigtown, which had been the earliest surveyed, and were completed before
the larger scale was sanctioned. The uncultivated portions of Scotland, it
may be added, are also excepted from the larger scale. These six counties,
and Yorkshire and Lancashire, are thus the only counties in Great Britain
whose maps are not published on the twenty-five-inch scale. Towns with
populations over four thousand have been surveyed on a still larger scale,
varying from one-five-hundredth, or a hundred and twenty-six inches to the
mile, to one-ten-hundred and fifty-sixth, or about sixty inches to the mile.
Edinburgh and thirteen other towns are done on the smaller scale, and forty-
four other towns on the larger. In any future revision of the Survey, those
towns and counties which have not been published on the larger scales will
probably have priority.
It is needless to add that great delay and vexatious hindrance to the general
efficiency and progress of the Survey have been caused by the vacillation
and frequent changes made at the instance of the House of Commons. One
session it would be in a liberal mood, and rule that the Survey should be
carried on with all speed and on the most liberal scale; and at another it
would rescind its good resolutions and pass others of a more economical
kind. In 1851, for example, a Committee of the House of Commons, with
the present Earl of Wemyss at their head, recommended that the six-inch
scale in Scotland should be discontinued and the one-inch maps only
published. Much dissatisfaction was felt in Scotland at this retrograde
recommendation, and remonstrances from all quarters poured in to the
Treasury on the subject. Three years afterwards, the twenty-five-inch scale
was approved of; but an adverse vote was carried in the House of Commons

two years later; and the question was not put to rest till 1861, when the
latter scale was finally sanctioned; and since then, as Colonel White
remarks, ‘parliamentary committees have troubled us no more.’ A
recommendation to accelerate the progress of the Survey was made in 1880;
and in the following year the working force was nearly doubled. As a result
of this arrangement, it is expected that the work will be completed in 1890;
this is on the supposition that the present numbers and organisation are kept
up. From the last Annual Report, we learn that on the 31st of December
1885, there were employed 28 officers, 2 warrant-officers, 364 non-
commissioned officers and sappers of the Royal Engineers, and 2846
civilians—total, 3240. This, presumably, includes all those connected with
the production and publication of the maps at Southampton, the
headquarters of the Survey.
Of the inestimable benefit to the nation at large of the Ordnance Survey
there can be but one opinion among all persons capable of forming an
intelligent opinion. It has proved of great value in a large number of matters
of the highest public interest. Its necessity and importance in connection
with the national defences are perhaps of primary interest; but there are
numerous other departments where it has proved equally essential, such as
for valuation purposes—facilitating the taking of the census; for drainage,
waterworks, railways, and engineering works generally; for extension of
town boundaries, and surveys for various purposes. As a practical example
of the public advantage derived from the Ordnance Survey, Colonel White
mentions that during the progress of the Redistribution of Seats Bill the
enormous number of four hundred and fifty-three thousand maps were
required for the Boundary Commissioners; and special duties of a similar
kind were also rendered in 1868, and also to the Irish Church Temporalities
Commission. These and other services of a more strictly scientific nature, as
those rendered to geodesy and geology, afford ample testimony to the value
of the labours of those engaged in this arduous and honourable service.
The all-important question remains, how are we to carry on this confessedly
important work? We must not lose the benefit of what, through great toil
and cost, has been already achieved. Valuable as have been the results, it is
evident that many portions of the Survey are now obsolete. The
triangulation portion of the work has of course been done once for all; but
in a very large number of cases, especially in the suburbs of towns, the

whole face of the country is changed. There are hundreds of districts which
are presented in the Survey sheets as green fields, surrounded with trees and
hedgerows, where now are densely populated towns or parts of towns. The
hills and the rivers remain, but all else is changed. Glebe-lands, residential
estates, farm-steadings have become streets and lanes, or perhaps have
succumbed to the operations of the miner, or afforded space for a great
industry of some sort. It is obvious, then, that the Survey, unequalled, it is
believed, in any other country, should undergo periodical revision in order
to keep pace with the progress of the nation, otherwise we shall find
ourselves unable to cope satisfactorily with many questions and difficulties
arising from time to time in a great country like our own. How, for instance,
would the Boundary Commissioners in the instance already mentioned have
performed their duties had there been no accurate survey of the country?
And in the war-scare of 1858-9, Colonel White mentions that a great
expense was incurred by the government of the day in getting special
surveys of large districts hastily made, as at that time the twenty-five-inch
scale was just begun; and it would have been still more had there been no
force ready to undertake the duty. Imperfectly, then, as the case has been
here stated, there is sufficient, we think, to demonstrate that there is a strong
plea for a deliberate and favourable consideration of this important matter at
no distant date.
It only remains to make acknowledgment to Colonel White for the use here
made of many of the facts in his interesting volume. To those who feel any
interest in the subject, and even to those who do not, his story of the labours
of his comrades is worthy, in literary and other respects, of all
commendation, and we venture to say will do much to popularise the
subject.

WANTED, A CLUE.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAP. I.

‘“Companion required for a Young Lady. Must be cheerful, musical, and of
good family. Salary, £60 per annum.”’ Such was the advertisement my aunt
Margaret read out to me one morning, as we sat at breakfast in her neat little
house in London.
I am the orphan daughter of a missionary, and my aunt’s was the only home
I had ever known. For the past three years I had been resident governess in
a wealthy family in Yorkshire; but my employers’ purse-proud arrogance
was too much for my self-respect, and I had to leave, resolving if possible
to try and obtain a post as companion.
Tempted by the excellent salary offered, I at once wrote to the address
indicated. Promptly I received a reply, from Mr Foster of Great Gorton
Hall, Westernshire. He stated that companionship was required for his step-
daughter, Miss Thorndyke, a delicate girl of eighteen, who resided with him
and his widowed sister, Mrs Morrell; her mother, his dear late wife, having
died the previous year. He added that my acquirements and credentials were
satisfactory; and requested to know whether I had ever been in
Westernshire, and if I had any friends or connections there.
I replied that I was an entire stranger to the county and to all the people in
it; and in a few days I was overjoyed at receiving the nomination to the
post; for I was unwilling to be a burden on my aunt’s slender means.
Gorton Hall was a fine building of gray stone, standing in beautiful
grounds, on the outskirts of a pretty country village. I was shown into a
spacious drawing-room, where a middle-aged lady in black greeted me very
pleasantly, introducing herself as Mrs Morrell. She kindly bade me be
seated, and sent a servant in search of her brother.
Mr Foster was a fine-looking man, with iron-gray hair, and a keen and
searching expression—a man whom I instinctively felt it would be
dangerous to offend. His manner to me, like his sister’s, was courtesy itself.

He explained the duties expected from me. ‘And one thing more I must add,
Miss Armitage,’ he said in conclusion—‘although willing to concede
everything reasonable, there is one thing I cannot permit in members of my
household—gossiping with strangers concerning my family. I prefer that
my daughter’s companion should have no friends or acquaintances in this
neighbourhood; and I must request that during your residence here, you
discourage any intimacy which people at Gorton or any of the neighbouring
villages may seek to establish with you. I have seen so much mischief
caused by gossip and tittle-tattle, that I am obliged to request this.’
The stipulation seemed a very reasonable one, and I readily acceded to it.
Mr Foster then went on to speak of his step-daughter.
‘Our darling Edith is not so strong as we could wish, and indeed is
frequently confined to the sofa. The doctor orders her to keep early hours
and avoid all excitement; she therefore goes but little into society; but we
hope the companionship of a bright and lively girl will prove beneficial.
Keep her amused and happy, Miss Armitage, and we ask no more from
you.’
I found my future charge in the drawing-room, when I descended dressed
for dinner. She was a fragile-looking creature, with light hair and large blue
eyes. She greeted me very kindly. Her manner was childish, considering her
age; but I was much relieved not to find her a fine fashionable young lady.
She was still in mourning for her mother.
We had a musical evening. Mrs Morrell and I executed several duets on the
piano, accompanied by Mr Foster on the violin, which he played very well.
Edith kissed me very kindly as she said good-night; and before I went to
rest, I sat down and wrote to my aunt in glowing terms, saying that Gorton
Hall was an earthly paradise.
Nor did I see reason to change my opinion for many weeks. I soon felt
perfectly at ease in my new home. Edith was so gentle, so unassuming, and
so considerate, that it was impossible not to love her; and Mr Foster and his
sister were most kind. I was treated as a gentlewoman and an equal; and my
duties were very light, being chiefly to drive Edith in a pretty pony-
carriage, to play duets, and occasionally to read aloud.

We did not mix very much in society, although Mrs Morrell received a due
amount of calls from the ladies in the neighbourhood. A few quiet garden-
parties and dinners were the limit of our dissipations, on Edith’s account. I
was always included in any scheme of pleasure, and Mr Foster made quite a
point of introducing me to all visitors.
There was a fine old church in the village, to which we all went on
Sundays. It was a mile and a half across the fields; but we usually drove, on
account of Edith. I had been nearly six months at the Hall, when one fine
Sunday morning in July it fell to my lot to go to church alone, for the first
time since my arrival. Mr Foster was in London; Edith had a headache; and
Mrs Morrell would not leave her, although she was urgent that I should go.
The service over, I was returning across the first field, when I heard steps
behind me, and a gentleman’s voice said: ‘Miss Armitage!’
I turned round in surprise, to see a young man who was a perfect stranger to
me. Lifting his hat politely, he begged for the honour of a few words with
me.
I was both amazed and indignant, and somewhat loftily informed him that I
was not in the habit of conversing with total strangers; so saying, I was
walking on, when he interrupted me, and begged me to listen, for Edith
Thorndyke’s sake.
‘My father, Dr Archer, was her father’s oldest friend, Miss Armitage. My
family is well known in this neighbourhood; and I live in the next village,
Little Gorton, where I am in partnership with Dr Selby. You are well known
to me by name, and for some time I have endeavoured to contrive an
interview with you, in vain. I could not come up to the Hall,’ he added, no
doubt seeing amazement written on my face. ‘The fact is, Miss Armitage, I
love Edith Thorndyke; but her step-father considers my position inferior to
hers, and refuses to allow me to see her until she is of age. Doubtless you
are aware that she will inherit a great deal of property.’
‘I strongly disapprove of discussing these family matters with a total
stranger, sir,’ I said, trying to move away. ‘Also, Mr Foster has absolutely
forbidden it.—Good-morning.’
‘One moment!’ he pleaded. ‘Edith Thorndyke’s very life may depend upon
it! Have you heard the terms of her mother’s will?’

‘They are nothing to me, sir.’
‘Oh, but please, Miss Armitage! I entreat you! Do listen to me! When Mrs
Foster’s first husband died, he left her some thousands a year, in addition to
Gorton Hall and the estates, entirely at her own disposal. She married again,
and died last year, when it was found that she had left her husband Edith’s
sole guardian until she should be twenty-one, when she would enter into the
possession of the Thorndyke property. In case she died before attaining her
majority, one half of the property would devolve upon Mr Foster, and half
upon relatives of the Thorndykes. Even the half is a very large sum, Miss
Armitage—quite enough to tempt a man like Mr Foster to—to—— In
short, I sadly fear Edith Thorndyke will not be allowed to live until she is
twenty-one.’
‘This is downright madness!’ I exclaimed. ‘Mr Foster is the kindest and best
of men—quite incapable of harbouring designs upon his step-daughter’s
life.’
‘I know Lawrence Foster; you do not,’ he answered quietly. ‘I know him to
be bold and cunning and unscrupulous. Edith believes in him and his sister;
but she is sadly deceived. I hoped to be able to enlist you on my side, Miss
Armitage, when I heard of your arrival at the Hall. I should be glad to feel
sure that Edith has one disinterested friend in the house.’
‘But I ought not to speak to you at all,’ I said, feeling very uncomfortable.
‘Mr Foster has strictly forbidden me to gossip with strangers.’
‘Because he is afraid that you might hear the truth.’
‘But if he is what you say, why does he have a companion for his step-
daughter at all? I must be a check on his movements. I see all that goes on;
he never hides anything from me.’
‘Don’t you see that your presence is an additional security for him? It
disarms suspicion. Supposing Edith—well, died suddenly; people would
say: “Miss Armitage was there; she knows all about it;” and no comment
would be excited; whereas it would probably seem suspicious, at all events
to the Thorndyke family, who are by no means satisfied with the terms of
the will, if Edith were to die whilst living alone with Mr Foster and his
sister. There can be no doubt that the money must be an immense

temptation to him. He has nothing of his own. Ten thousand a year, and
only one fragile girl’s life in the way!’
I must say the speaker’s earnestness and unmistakable sincerity began to
make an impression upon me. I had fancied once or twice that Mr Foster
exercised an unusually close surveillance over Edith and me. Were Dr
Archer’s words true, and was I merely a lay-figure at Gorton Hall, to
deceive the world? Had I been taken into society by my employers, and my
praises trumpeted forth to all their acquaintances, merely in order that my
presence should disarm suspicion? ‘You have made me very
uncomfortable,’ I candidly confessed.
‘Believe me, Miss Armitage, I would not have taken this course but that I
was compelled by necessity. Edith’s step-father has such a complete
ascendency over her, that it is difficult to know what to do. But you are
always with her, and can watch over her.’
‘But I am only a paid companion, liable to dismissal at any time.’
‘True; but I hope you will try and stay as long as you can, for Edith’s sake.’
‘I fear she is very delicate.’
‘She is delicate; she needs care. But, as she gets older, her health will
probably improve. There is really no reason, humanly speaking, why she
should not live for many years. But I fear—I fear many things, but chiefly
poison, slow and secret. Mr Foster is an accomplished chemist; and his
antecedents—better known to me than to most people—give me little
confidence in him. If you knew as much as I do about him, Miss Armitage,
you would not wonder at my suspicions. But be sure of this: there is danger.
I have no proof against Mr Foster, and therefore cannot interfere in any
way. Promise, promise me, Miss Armitage, that you will inform me of
everything suspicious that you may see from this time. Here is my address.’
I hastily took the proffered card and gave the promise, anxious to return
before Mrs Morrell should be uneasy at my absence. She laughingly
remarked that the sermon must have been unusually long, and in a casual
manner asked what was the text. Luckily, I was able to supply chapter and
verse and a lengthy catalogue of my fellow-worshippers. It then struck me
for the first time that if, by chance, I was allowed to go out alone, either Mr

Foster or Mrs Morrell might find out, by skilfully put questions, everything
I had said, seen, and done.
Now that suspicion had once entered my mind, I saw grounds for it
everywhere, as might have been expected. The most absurd fancies entered
into my head. I persuaded Edith in secret to lock her door at night before
retiring to rest, which she had never done before. I do not know what I
expected to happen. The precaution was a senseless one; for the foes I was
fighting against were far too clever and subtle to contemplate anything so
foolish as commonplace midnight murder.
I will do my employers the justice to say that with all this I spent a
delightful summer. They took Edith and me to Scotland for a two months’
tour; and I never enjoyed a holiday so much. A more charming cicerone
than Mr Foster could not be. Then we went back to Gorton, and settled
down for the winter. For some time, absolutely nothing of any importance
occurred. I wrote occasionally a brief, reassuring, cautious note to Dr
Archer, but carefully refrained from speaking when we met, to avert
suspicion. Edith and I grew daily more attached; and nothing could exceed
my employers’ kindness.
Edith had been decidedly better in health, until she received a severe chill in
November. Mrs Morrell at once sent for the doctor, the same old family
practitioner who had attended her from her birth.
Dr Stevens was a worthy man, and once a skilful physician, no doubt; but
when I saw him, he was nearly eighty and quite past his work. Feeble, weak
in sight and hearing, the old man seemed more fit to be in bed himself, than
to be employed in his professional capacity. I hinted as much to Edith; but
she was quite indignant, and reiterated her assurances that she had more
confidence in Dr Stevens than in any one else; so I had to rest satisfied.
Miss Thorndyke’s illness dragged on with fluctuating strength. She was too
delicate to shake off anything easily; and she had frequent relapses, which
sadly weakened her strength. Mrs Morrell nursed her most assiduously,
declining professional attendance, but permitting me to help her to the best
of my ability. But although I was allowed to be in the invalid’s room all day,
if I chose, Mrs Morrell would not permit me to exhaust my strength in
night-nursing. She had had her bed placed in a dressing-room
communicating with Edith’s room, and there she slept, ready, at the

slightest movement of the invalid, to spring up and wait upon her. Edith
spoke warmly of Mrs Morrell’s kindness and devotion; and certainly she
spared no pains to humour the fancies of the sick girl.
About Christmas, the disease assumed a new phase. Symptoms of stomach
derangement set in, which Dr Stevens attributed to the long-continued
recumbent position and lack of exercise; and he set himself to combat the
new evil by every means in his power. This was all discussed in my
presence, for no mystery was made of the matter; and indeed I was usually
accustomed to administer Edith’s food and medicines when I sat in her
room. This, however, never occurred in the evening; for Mr Foster so
pathetically pleaded his loneliness in the deserted drawing-room after
dinner, when his sister always went to the invalid, that in common civility I
could not refuse to play chess and cribbage with him, and occasionally
accompany his violin on the piano.
But one night about nine o’clock I slipped quietly out of the drawing-room,
and went up-stairs to Edith’s room to see if she was awake. She had been
worse that day, and I was beginning to feel rather anxious about her. For a
wonder, Mrs Morrell was not on duty, and I entered unchallenged. I had not
been into Edith’s room so late as this since the beginning of her illness, and
was astonished to find it lighted up by eight large wax candles, dispersed
about the apartment, although the glare was carefully screened from the
invalid’s face. I stooped over the thin face on the pillow, and received a
faint smile. I could not help remarking: ‘How light your room is! I wonder
you can sleep in such a blaze.’
‘Mrs Morrell likes it,’ was the languid answer. ‘She always burns eight
candles like that, all night. I don’t mind them.—O Alice dear, I am so tired
of lying here! and I’m always so thirsty, so dreadfully thirsty! Do give me
something to drink!’
I poured out a tumblerful of a cooling drink from a handsome red glass jug
on the table near me. She drank it eagerly, and sank back on her pillow as
Mrs Morrell came into the room.
I fancied that an angry gleam shot at me from under the widow’s black
eyebrows; but if so, she smoothed away her irritation before she addressed
me. ‘Alice, my dear, it is most kind of you to be here, but I left my darling
girl, as I hoped, to sleep. She is more likely to get a good night’s rest, if she

is not disturbed by late visitors. After nine o’clock, please, I must request
you for the present, dear, not to come here again.’
I apologised, and said good-night, turning, however, at the door to ask if
Mrs Morrell did not think so much light might have a disturbing effect upon
the invalid.
‘Now, my dear Miss Armitage, that is not like your usual common-sense,’
answered the widow sweetly. ‘Above all things, plenty of light is essential
in a sickroom, where medicines have to be accurately measured out, and
where at any moment the nurse may be summoned to her patient’s side. I
should be tumbling over the furniture in the dark, if the candles were not
kept burning. And now, my dear girl, I must really request that you go;
Edith is nearly asleep. Good-night.’ So I ran down-stairs, to be gently
scolded by Mr Foster for my long absence.
When a week went by and Edith grew worse every day, I became seriously
alarmed, and expressed my uneasiness in a letter to Dr Archer, which I
posted myself, for fear of accidents. He sent me a brief note by a trusty
messenger, in reply, which did not tend to allay my fears:
‘Your account of her symptoms was most alarming. You say she is wasted
and prostrate, and suffers from painful cramps and insatiable thirst. These
are the symptoms of arsenical poisoning. You must contrive to secure
portions of all her food and medicine, and bottle them securely, and bring
them to me. Be in the fir plantation at four o’clock to-morrow to meet me; it
is a matter of life and death.’
You may imagine how terrified I was; but luckily I had nerve enough to
hide it. I looked out all the small bottles I could find, washed them out
carefully, and determined to put them into my pocket one at a time, to fill as
occasion should serve. At the same time I could hardly believe that Dr
Archer was right in his suspicions. I believed they could not poison Edith
without my knowledge. I was in and out of the sickroom all day, from about
ten o’clock in the morning, until I was dismissed at five to dress for dinner;
and at least half of her food and medicine I administered with my own
hands. The medicine bottles I frequently opened fresh from Dr Stevens’
wrappings; and it was difficult to imagine that poison could get into
puddings and jellies brought straight from the kitchen to the bedside. I

could only conclude that at night must occur Mrs Morrell’s opportunity—if
at all.
I felt like a conspirator, as I contrived to secrete small portions of
everything of which Edith partook. I secured the last drops remaining of the
cooling drink which Mrs Morrell had had to administer to the invalid during
the night; also a portion of the farinaceous pudding which Miss Thorndyke
had had for her dinner, a part of her sleeping-draught, a wine-glassful of the
mixture she was taking every two hours, and some of the beef-tea which Dr
Stevens had ordered for her. If poison were really being administered, it
must be present in one or other of these. I chiefly suspected the remains of
the cooling drink. I was young and unsophisticated, and my experience as a
novel-reader made me believe it quite possible that Mrs Morrell should
carry small packets of arsenic about in her pocket, to mix in Edith’s
medicines and food, as occasion should serve. I can only smile at my
credulity now.
It was a difficult matter to meet Dr Archer in the fir plantation unobserved.
Mrs Morrell had first to be evaded, and then Mr Foster, who manifested a
most amiable and pressing desire to accompany me in my walk. I dared not
linger, but hastily thrust the phials into the young doctor’s hands, telling
him I particularly suspected the cooling drink. He informed me that he was
going to send them at once to an eminent analyst at one of the London
hospitals; and that, if they proved to contain poison, he should instantly
apply to a magistrate for a warrant.
I could not control my feelings that evening sufficiently well to prevent Mr
Foster remarking, as we sat at chess: ‘Your walk to-day did not do you
much good, Miss Armitage.’
‘I have rather a headache,’ I hastily answered. It was perfectly true. ‘I sat
with Edith all the morning, and her room seemed to me very stuffy.’ Indeed,
I had frequently noticed a strange closeness pervading it, especially when I
first entered it in the morning; and I very often found my head the worse for
a prolonged sojourn in it.
‘As soon as Dr Stevens will allow it, she shall be moved into a larger
room,’ he answered, as if he wished to evade a discussion of the subject.

SOME ANECDOTES OF AMERICAN
CHILDREN.
The subject of children is one in which every one is more or less interested;
for even those who have none of their own were babies themselves in some
dim period of the past, and probably most of us have wondered at times
what sort of babies we were. Happy they who have it on the authority of
those who ought to know, that they were ‘well-behaved children’—lumps
of good-nature, and never addicted to crying. How kindly does Charles
Lamb revert to the days of his childhood, dwelling with something of
reverence on the image of that ‘young master’ whom he could scarcely
believe to have been indeed himself, and whose pure memory he cherished
as tenderly ‘as if it had been a child of some other house,’ and not of his
parents. So perhaps some of us also have yearned over those little phantoms
of the past, our own child-selves.
But it is of American children that we have now a few words to say.
Perhaps, however, we make a mistake at the outset in calling them children
at all, for many of them seem to belong to some species of fairy
changelings, so remarkable and almost uncanny is their precocity, and that,
too, from the earliest infancy, while they are still in their nurses’ arms, or at
the bottle. Gilbert’s little urchin of the Bab Ballads who chucked his nurse
under the chin when she fed him, and vowed by the rap it was excellent
pap, was nothing to them. They would be too blasé for such infantine
manifestations as these. We have one of them before our ‘mind’s eye’ now,
an ideal-looking little maid, with sunny hair, blue eyes, and rosy cheeks, the
youngest darling of a happy household. Being of a wakeful disposition, she
was indulged with her bottle at night up to the mature age of nearly two
years. Her mother, waking once at midnight, was aware of some
disturbance in the cot beside her, where baby seemed to be searching
vigorously in the moonlight for something. Hoping the little one might
forego her search and drop to sleep, the mother lay quiet, when suddenly
baby raised her soft fair head, and with the startling question, ‘Where de
debil is my mouf-piece?’ fairly banished all slumber from her fond parent.

It must be explained that this occurred in a part of the country where
children were liable to overhear the talk of negroes, both indoor and
outdoor servants; and this race, as represented in the States of America, are
evidently of the opinion of the old sea-captain’s Scotch wife who, while
agreeing with her minister as to the advisability of her husband’s giving up
the habit of swearing, was yet constrained to acknowledge that ‘nae doubt it
was still a great set-off to conversation.’ Baby’s grandmamma, however, on
being informed of this last addition to her darling’s vocabulary, remarked
somewhat grimly that it was about time the bottle should be given up.
The foregoing was scarcely so bad as what a little two-year-old neighbour
was guilty of; for on this young scapegrace being mildly remonstrated with
for some misdemeanour by his grandfather—a venerable old doctor, of
much repute with all who knew him—he retorted, in his half-articulate baby
speech, ‘Gan-pa, you’se a old fool!’—waking a burst of unhallowed
merriment from all within hearing distance.
The propensity on the part of their children to use profane language is a
source of great uneasiness to American mothers. One lady, the daughter of a
clergyman, who had brought her up on strictly old-fashioned principles, was
much distressed to note the habit growing on her only child, a fine manly
little boy of four years. At her wits’ end for a timely cure, she at last
resorted to the expedient of a whipping, threatening, with the most
unmistakable air of sincerity, that it would be repeated if ever a certain word
were used by him again. The morning after this occurrence, Georgie was, as
usual, at his spelling lesson with his mother, the task for the day consisting
of a string of words all rhyming with ‘am.’ The first few of them had been
accomplished with praiseworthy accuracy, when suddenly the young
student came to a dead-stop. ‘Go on, sonny,’ said his mother encouragingly,
not seeing for the moment where the difficulty lay. ‘C-a-m—cam,’ repeated
Georgie in evident embarrassment, the next word apparently presenting
some insurmountable obstacle. ‘Go on!’ insisted his mother—when, with a
sudden blurt, out came the monosyllable ‘D-a-m—dam, a millpond dam,’
added Georgie, the threatened punishment being uppermost in his mind.
The same little boy had a cousin, a year older than himself, and ages ahead
of him in knowledge of the world, so much so, that he would sometimes
assume the part of mentor towards his more unsophisticated junior. When
the two were together one day, the elder announced his intention of paying

a visit to a family living near them. ‘But I won’t take you with me,’ said he.
‘Why not?’ asked Georgie, disconcerted. ‘Because they’ll teach you to
swear,’ returned the other gravely. ‘But you go there yourself,’ argued little
George. ‘O yes,’ rejoined his senior with a world-worn air; ‘I swear
already.’
Young America does not take kindly to correction in any form, probably
resenting it as an infringement of natural liberties. One little boy having
been punished for some childish transgression, astonished his family by
coming down suddenly from his room up-stairs with a small bundle under
his arm, saying, ‘I’m going to leave this blessed house.’
American children are, as a rule, more practical and less imaginative than
those of the old country—inclined from the very beginning to look on life
as a struggle, though a pleasant one on the whole, and on the world as their
oyster, which they, with their sharp-set wits, must open. They bring this
matter-of-fact element even into their devotions. A little girl was promised
by her father, on his leaving home for a few days, that he would bring dolls
for her and her sister when he came back. That night, when at her prayers,
she put in the very laudable petition, ‘Pray God, bring papa home safely;’
but somewhat compromised the effect by adding with great emphasis, after
a moment’s rapt reflection—‘with the dolls.’ But this was devotion itself
compared with the following. A little mite of a creature running out of her
room one morning was called back by her mother: ‘Dolly, you haven’t said
your prayers.’ ‘I dess Dod tan wait,’ returned little Miss Irreverence; ‘I’se in
a hurry.’ In both these cases, the utter unconsciousness of presumption on
the part of the tiny speakers took away the effect of profanity from their
words.
Reverence is certainly not the strong point of our small kinsfolk across the
water. Almost from their entrance into the world, they begin to assume airs
of equality with all around them. One sweet little damsel, who was of
peculiarly small and fairy-like proportions, could with difficulty be
prevailed upon to call her parents otherwise than by their Christian names;
and the effect was quaint to hear her, when offered candy or such-like
forbidden dainties, refuse them with a wistful look and the words: ‘Willie
not likes it’ (Willie being her father); or, ‘Annie’ (her mother) ‘said no.’
Nay, she did not scruple even to call her grandmother by her name, as far as
she could pronounce it, for ‘Margaret’ offered some obstacles to the baby

lips. You would have fancied this same little maiden too soft and gentle to
brush the down from a butterfly’s wing; but on one occasion she shocked
the sensibilities of her young cousin, fresh from England, by exclaiming, on
an innocent, newly fledged chicken being brought in for the inspection of
the family: ‘Me have dat pitty bird for my dinner!’
From the youngest age, American children are ready to share—as
Wordsworth once expressed it—‘in anything going.’ A visitor injudiciously
offering a little boy some wine at dinner, was requested by his watchful
mother not to give him ‘too much;’ when young Hopeful took the words out
of her mouth by protesting with vehement eagerness: ‘I like too much!’
It is no easy task to impose any restrictions, even of time or place, on one of
these little free-born Americans, or to impress them with any sense of
restraint or regard of persons. One little daughter of Eve, brought up for
baptism at the ripe age of two—episcopal visits being rare in the part of the
country where she lived—somewhat scandalised the bishop by calling his
attention, just before the ceremony, to her attire, thus: ‘Look at my new
dess;’ and drawing it back to display her dainty feet—‘Look, bissop, at my
pitty new boots!’ The good father took it all in very amiable part, though he
remarked to her mother afterwards, that the little one had evidently no
intention of giving up the vanities of the world just yet.
But we must say good-bye for the present to our little American cousins, on
whom we must not be understood to have cast the shadow of an aspersion.
Their intelligence and quickness, indeed, combined with the other charms
of infancy—of which they have their full share—make them as attractive,
to say the least, as any of their kind. We can assert, moreover, from our own
knowledge, that some of these tiny gentry, with whose scarce-conscious
childish profanity we have dallied for a while, are growing up at this
present moment into decent and in every way excellent members of society.

A STRANGE LOVE AFFAIR.
Hector Mackinnon, the hero of the strange story we are about to unfold, a
story perhaps unequalled for uniqueness in the annals of love, was a
divinity student. He had just completed his fourth year of the Hall, and
expected soon to be licensed as a probationer. He was the only son of a
wealthy merchant, and had been destined for the ministry from his birth.
Mr Mackinnon, senior, was a prominent and influential adherent of one of
our strictest dissenting bodies, and had brought up his son in the belief that
there was little else good in the world outside the pale of its communion.
There was some mystery about Hector’s mother, who had died shortly after
giving him birth. Some people whispered that she had been on the stage
before she was married, and that Mr Mackinnon had fallen violently in love
with her pretty face, and married the young girl while in the ecstasy of his
passion, and before the cold dictates of prudence, or the counsel of his
friends, could intervene. The marriage had not been, it was said, a happy
one. While the magic glamour of love lasted, all went well; when it began
to wane, the angular austerities of Mr Mackinnon’s disposition became
painfully apparent to the young bride. On his part, he looked without
sympathy, if not indeed with positive contempt, on what he termed the
‘worldly frivolities’ of her gay and joyous nature. Above all, he felt keenly
the loss of social status which the marriage entailed on him in the
estimation of his own sect. The young wife was sternly forbidden to have
any intercourse with her relatives and friends; and her husband’s sister, who
was a maiden lady of very gloomy religious views, was installed as
housekeeper ostensibly, but really to play ‘propriety’ to her unregenerate
young relative. Happiness could not, of course, exist in this state of matters;
and when the grim messenger arrived with the fiat which dissolved the ill-
assorted union, it was perhaps a relief to all.
Brought up under a terribly severe code of social ethics, the theatre, concert,
and ballroom were represented to Hector as only so many roads to
perdition; and being of an amiable disposition, and desirous of pleasing his
father, he had up till now, when he had attained his twenty-third year,

sedulously eschewed these enticing forms of social amusement. It was not
destined, however, that he was always to remain in this state of innocent
ignorance. A brilliant theatrical star visited the city, and turned the heads of
all—both young and old, male and female, alike. Her stage-name was
Violet d’Esterre (no one knew her real name), and it was on her exquisite
delineation of Shakspearean tragedy that her justly earned fame rested. The
college students were particularly enthusiastic in her praise, and crowded
the theatre nightly to admire her beauty, and listen entranced to the melody
of her sublime elocution. One evening, Hector, persuaded by his
companions, consented to accompany them to hear this paragon of
passionate declamation. The play was the old, old story of the hapless
lovers of Verona. Such a hold had her impersonation of the intensely loving
Juliet taken of the public, that they insisted on it being performed night after
night, to the exclusion of other tragic parts in which she was equally
celebrated. If any of our readers have not been in a theatre until they were
about the age of Hector, they will be able to realise the very powerful
sensuous effect the music, beautiful scenery, bright dresses, and decorations
had on his imagination, and how they conduced to give full effect to the
sense of bewildered admiration he felt when the curtain rose on the
banqueting hall in Capulet’s house, and the fair daughter of Capulet. How
feebly, it seemed to him, did Romeo express his feelings in saying:

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear:
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

Mademoiselle d’Esterre’s physical qualifications for the part were superb.
Her countenance, which was Italian in cast of features and complexion,
boasted of a pair of orbs of the deepest violet black. Large and lustrous,
they were mobile and expressive in the highest degree. When they first
rested on Romeo’s form, they dilated with the eager fire of southern
passion, and as quickly drooped in maidenly confusion and modesty. Her
whole attitude showed she felt she had met her destiny; and before she had
even spoken a syllable, the audience felt they were under the spell of an
enchantress. Then, with what simple natural dignity did she invest the few

words the girl-lover addresses to love-stricken Romeo, already commencing
his love-making as ‘holy palmer.’ From the moment the curtain was raised
until it descended at the end of the fifth act, Hector sat spellbound,
oblivious to everything on earth save the scenes that were being enacted on
the stage. His companions had to arouse him when it became time to quit
the theatre.
‘Well, Mackinnon,’ said Charley Smith, ‘what do you think of the
d’Esterre? Jolly-like girl, isn’t she?’
‘Don’t speak of the young lady in that vulgar way,’ he replied. ‘I am certain
that girl is as pure and good as Juliet was.’
‘I am not saying a word against her—nobody can do that,’ his companion
rejoined. ‘Surely, surely, you’ve not got hit with her charms—you, of all
men!’
Hector was in no mood for badinage at that moment, and pleading a
headache, he hurried off to his lodgings. He could not imagine what was the
matter; but after tossing all night uneasily in bed, he had to confess to
himself next morning that he, Hector Mackinnon, the budding clergyman,
the lifelong hater of things theatrical and bohemianisms of every sort, had
fallen hopelessly and irretrievably in love with an actress he had seen for
the first and only time a few hours ago! There was no use in trying to
disguise the truth to himself; he felt—or fancied he felt, which comes to
much the same thing—that life without possession of this fair divinity
would not be worth living; but that, with her by his side, the roughest
tempests that fate could send would feel like gentle wooing zephyrs.
It was not to be expected that this state of matters could long remain secret
from Hector’s companions. His theses and themes remained unwritten; his
answers to the Professor’s questions were of the most incoherent
description, and at last he discontinued his attendance at college altogether.
Inheriting a considerable share of his father’s stern determination, he was
not of a nature to suffer in silence the agonies of a secret and unrequited
passion. The inspirer of the consuming yet delicious flame which burned
within his bosom must, he admitted, be some few years older than himself;
for had she not been a celebrity in her profession for over a dozen years
now? Well, what of that? Was that any reason why he should deny himself
the lifelong companionship of the only woman he ever loved or could love?

To marry her meant, he knew, an open rupture with his father, and the
abandonment of his ministerial career; but were these trifles for one
moment to be weighed in the balance against the pure and unalloyed bliss
of a lifetime spent in the society of his darling? No—a thousand times, no!
In this wise did he reason with himself, as many a lover has done before,
and, we may safely predict, will do again. His life had now only one object,
and that was to gain an introduction to Mademoiselle d’Esterre, and press
his suit with all the ardour of a lover who felt that his life’s happiness
depended on the result.
Every night found him at the theatre, gazing on the unconscious cause of
his distraction ‘till his life’s love left him through his eyes.’ The rich clear
notes of her magnificent contralto voice seemed to flood the theatre with
the music of the spheres, and filled his soul with an agony of delight. At this
period, it would have been an unspeakable relief to his overcharged
feelings, if he had had some sympathetic friend to make a confidant of. But,
alas, the sufferer from the darts of the rosy god, like the victim of prosaic
toothache, obtains no sympathy from his kind.
Time wore on, and the posters announced the last six nights of
Mademoiselle’s engagement. He had tried his best to procure an
introduction, but without success, the friends and associates of his past life
being widely outside of theatrical circles. He found out, however, where she
lodged, and the hour at which she usually took her daily promenade. In vain
did he follow her at a respectful distance, in the fond hope that some drunk
man, runaway horse, or other street casualty, might afford the means of an
impromptu introduction; unfortunately, the pedestrians were all sober, and
the horses jogged on in a manner remarkably sedate and correct. At last,
when almost reduced to despair, an ingenious thought occurred to him. The
talented actress occasionally gave morning recitations and readings. He was
possessed of considerable literary ability, and what was to hinder him from
composing a suitable piece for recitation, sending it to her for approval, and
by that means obtaining a personal interview? Being favourably impressed
with the feasibility of the scheme, he set to work, and composed a hundred-
line poem in blank verse, in which the torments of unrequited love were
very forcibly if not elegantly portrayed. With a trembling hand, he dropped
this in the letter-box, accompanied by a polite note craving her acceptance
of the offering.

Who shall attempt to describe the thirty-six dreary hours of suspense that
elapsed before a reply came, in a polite little epistle redolent of patchouli,
thanking Mr Mackinnon for his kind present, which she would be glad to
use on the first suitable occasion? She was, however, of opinion that, from
an elocutionary point of view, certain alterations would tend to make it
much more effective. Would Mr Mackinnon honour Mademoiselle by
calling on her at her residence at noon the following day, when said
alterations could be discussed? The poor fellow almost cried as he again
and again pressed the precious missive to his lips; and it was some time
before his spirits were sufficiently calmed down to admit of his inditing a
coherent reply. Hope now lent her roseate hues to our hero’s love prospects,
and it was with difficulty he compelled himself to await the slow progress
of the hands on the dial of his watch till they were conjoined over the happy
hour appointed for his interview with her who held his life’s happiness at
her sole command.
Arrived at his destination, he timidly rang the door-bell, and on giving the
servant his card, was informed the lady was ‘at home.’ On entering the
drawing-room, he beheld Mademoiselle reclining in a graceful attitude on a
low ottoman. She wore a négligé costume of some sort of soft warm cream-
coloured material, which harmonised delightfully with her clear,
transparent, olive complexion, and displayed the symmetry of her
exquisitely formed figure to great advantage. She wore no jewelry; her only
ornament was a beautiful Marshal M‘Mahon rose, the deep crimson petals
of which formed a charming contrast to the raven tresses on which they
reposed. There were two other occupants of the room; and it was easy to
see, from their ‘at-home’ air, that they were not merely visitors. One was a
brisk little lady, with a pleasant good-humoured expression, who it would
be safe to guess had seen at least fifty summers. The other was a tall stately
girl of not more than seventeen or eighteen. She had evidently been
practising at the piano, which lay open, with the score of a new opera on the
music-holder. Had Hector’s mind not been so fully engrossed, he probably
would have noticed a considerable resemblance between her and the fair
object of his devotions. The principal difference lay in the colour of the
hair, the complexion, and the stature. The young lady was a pronounced
blonde, possessing large azure orbs of almost dreamy softness, and a wealth
of light reddish-golden hair carelessly twisted and fastened in a coil at the
back of the head.

As Hector advanced, Mademoiselle rose gracefully from her seat and,
glancing at his card, said in the same rich contralto tones which had so
inthralled him in the theatre: ‘Ah, Mr Mackinnon, I perceive! Good-
morning, sir. Pray, be seated.’ Holding out her hand, he had the brief
precious delight of pressing it for a second in his trembling palm.—‘Now,
you needn’t leave the room,’ she said, addressing her two companions.
‘This is the gentleman who did me the honour of sending me the poem
entitled Amor in Mors.—Permit me to introduce you to my good friend Mrs
Eskell; and to Mademoiselle Andresen, my niece.’
The introductions being over, Hector resumed his seat. He never felt so
embarrassed in the whole course of his life. How fondly had he rehearsed in
his mind the many brilliant tender speeches he would give utterance to on
this occasion! Now that the wished-for opportunity had arrived, he sat
speechless. It is but fair to say, however, that he did not contemplate the
presence of third parties at the interview. Still, their presence should not
have tongue-tied him as it did—he, the glibest debater and the best
elocutionist in the college.
Seeing his embarrassment, the lady came to his relief. ‘Well, Mr
Mackinnon, I am very much pleased with your poem, and I think, with a
few slight alterations, it might make a very effective recitation. Do you not
think, though, the title is a little too lugubrious? Could you not substitute
some other word for Mors? Just reflect! Fancy me dying every night for the
past fortnight as Juliet! It is really too bad of the good folks of your city to
insist on my manager making me repeat night after night a part which I
have begun really to detest.’
‘O Mademoiselle, do not say that,’ cried Hector. ‘Ah, if you but knew the
delightful thrill you send through the audience in the balcony scene—and—
and—the tears you cause them to shed when the unfortunate heroine—
Shakspeare’s greatest creation’——
‘Shakspeare’s greatest fiddlestick!’ she replied, laughing merrily. ‘What
people see in her, I’m sure I don’t know! To my mind, she’s a forward
young chit, that would have been much better employed in mending Papa
Capulet’s hose and helping her mother to keep house, than philandering
with her Romeo.—But about Amor in Mors. Don’t you think, now, you

could make it just the tiniest little bit funny? I do so long to get out of this
continued round of love-making, murder, and suicide.’
Could he believe his ears? Was this cynical, matter-of-fact woman identical
with the fair embodiment of transcendental, ethereal love, on whose accents
he had hung with enraptured delight for the past few nights? No, it could
not be; there must be some strange mistake. Yet, when her mobile features
were for a moment in repose, there he beheld the same deep, lustrous,
unfathomable eyes—the same sweet innocent mouth, with its half-childlike
pouting lips. He was bewildered, and as in a dream.
‘You are pleased, Mademoiselle, to be satirical this morning,’ he replied. ‘I
cannot do you the injustice of supposing you are in earnest in what you say.
No one could enact the part of Juliet so nobly unless she were capable of
imbuing herself thoroughly with the divine passion attributed to her by her
creator.’
‘Believe me, you are quite wrong there, Mr Mackinnon. It is not by any
means those parts which actors have the natural emotional qualifications
for, that they excel in portraying. Nature in that case destroys art; and hence
it is that parts that actors like best are precisely those they act worst. For
myself, I am guided entirely by public criticism, and confine myself to
those rôles that draw the best houses. Of course I have my own
predilections. I have a very fair singing voice, and think I should be able to
do very well in opera-bouffe. Oh, I do dote on opera-bouffe!—But about
Amor in Mors. I really think the language is splendid—quite as good as
Shakspeare’s, I daresay, although I don’t profess to be a literary critic. Well,
if you would alter the conclusion in such a way as to make the audience
take a good hearty laugh after I had wound them up to the crying pitch, I
believe it would be effective, and I will line it in the bills for my first
Saturday morning readings.’
‘Alas, Mademoiselle, I fear my poor verses are not susceptible of being
changed in the way you wish; but if you allow me, I shall endeavour to
write something in a lighter vein, that may have the happiness to merit your
approval. Permit me to ask you to retain the verses you have.’
‘With pleasure, sir,’ she replied.—‘I presume you are of the literary
profession?’

Hector was not very sure whether a divinity student came of right under that
category or not, but he replied in the affirmative.
‘Well, then, we shall be glad to see you, if you can come along here to
supper at twelve o’clock on Friday first. It is a farewell entertainment I am
giving to a few friends of the press, and others. If you have your new piece
done, bring it with you; I’ll recite it, and we’ll see what they think of it.’
Thus saying, she rose, as if to indicate the interview was at an end; and after
making his adieux, Hector departed in a very anomalous state of mind. The
bright, girlish, gushing Juliet of the footlights was for ever annihilated in his
mind. In her stead stood an undeniably handsome, accomplished woman of
the world, gay, good-humoured, and apparently good-hearted; but so utterly
devoid of all sentiment as to frankly avow a longing for opera-bouffe! By
all the rules of common-sense, our hero being disillusioned, should have at
once fallen out of love. This, however, did not happen. After the first shock
of finding her so different in her ideas from what he expected was over, the
subjectivity of his passion asserted itself, and his mind soon formed a fresh
ideal of female perfection, of which she was again the incarnation.
He had but two days in which to compose his second recitation. Striking a
new chord, he wrote it in a light cynical vein, such as he thought would
please the fair actress, judging from her conversation with him. He wrought
hard at it, polishing and repolishing every line, until it reached, as he
thought, as near as possible to a state of brilliant perfection. When the
eventful Friday night arrived, he started for Mademoiselle’s residence with
a much greater feeling of confidence than he had experienced on the former
occasion. He was the first arrival, and while he sat in the drawing-room,
Mademoiselle Andresen and Mrs Eskell entered. On his first visit, he had
not paid much attention to the appearance of the former, and he was almost
surprised to see how exceedingly pretty she was. The old lady was very
talkative, and was not long in making him aware she was a distant relative
of Mademoiselle’s, and always played ‘Nurse’ to her Juliet. Mademoiselle
Andresen, whose father was a celebrated violinist in Stockholm, had just
completed her course of training for the lyric stage at the Conservatoire, and
was now on a visit to her aunt, to benefit by her instructions in the
technicalities of stage business. On being invited by Hector, the young lady
sat down to the piano, and sang an exquisite Danish ballad, which fairly

charmed him. The company now began to arrive, and he conducted the two
ladies down to the supper-room.
Exceedingly pretty, and exceedingly happy too, did Mademoiselle d’Esterre
look, as she sat at the head of the table listening to the cheerful conversation
of her guests. There were not more than a dozen and a half present—four
ladies and four gentlemen of them being members of Mademoiselle’s
company. After supper, and a due period of vivacity over the wine, the fair
hostess called for silence, and intimated her intention of reciting Mr
Mackinnon’s new poem. The author felt himself blushing to the tips of his
ears as he heard the—to him—familiar lines tripped off in her melodious
voice with rare elocutionary art. At the conclusion, the applause was great;
and the gentlemen of the press declared with one voice it was the best thing
of the season, and that the author would be sure to make his mark if he
applied himself to dramatic literature. With toast and song the hours sped
pleasantly away till two o’clock, when the cabs began to arrive for the
guests. Hector had been all night in brilliant spirits, and fairly astonished
himself with the smartness of his witty repartees, and the ease with which
he accommodated himself to society so different from that to which he had
been accustomed. His intoxication of bliss reached its climax when, as the
dispersing company were singing Auld Langsyne in the lobby, his hostess
whispered in his ear: ‘Wait; I wish to speak with you. Go up to the drawing-
room.’
He did so, and awaited her coming with trembling, eager impatience. When
she came into the room, she looked grave, even sad, he thought. ‘We may
never see each other again, Mr Mackinnon, and I cannot think of letting you
go away to-night without some recompense for the pretty poem you wrote
for me. Pray, accept of this in recognition of it, and—and as a token of my
regard for you;’ and she handed him a magnificent cluster diamond ring.
His head swam; he scarcely knew what he was doing, and fell on his knees
before her.
‘O Mademoiselle!’ he cried, his voice hoarse with emotion, ‘you are an
angel!—infinitely too good for me—too good for any one on earth. Oh,
how can I dare look in your sweet face and utter the words which burn on
my tongue! Forgive me for my presumption in daring to say so, but I love

you—love you with my whole heart and soul. Dare I ask you to be my
wife!’
Mademoiselle d’Esterre at first looked frightened, thinking her friend had
taken leave of his senses, or was giving her a small sample of his histrionic
powers. When he had made an end of his speech, however, she apparently
could not help bursting into an immoderate fit of laughter.
‘Rise up, you silly fellow!’ she cried, ‘and don’t make a baby of yourself.’
Her suppliant, who was in a state of bewilderment, mechanically obeyed.
She continued: ‘Upon my word, Mr Mackinnon, you have paid a great
compliment to my skill in preserving my looks. Why, my poor boy, I could
easily be your mother! I was forty-three on my last birthday!’
It might have been expected that this astounding piece of information would
have effectually quenched the flame in the breast of the unfortunate lover,
yet it had not that effect. ‘Alas! Mademoiselle, I am sorry that the disparity
in our years is so great, although I knew you must be a few years older than
myself. But what is age where true love exists? Believe me, if you consent
to our union, never will you hear me refer to the dis’——
‘Stop, stop, you foolish boy!’ the lady cried. ‘Even were I such a terrible
fool as you suppose, there is an insuperable legal obstacle in the way.’
‘What is that?’ he asked, wonderingly.
‘Why, I’m your aunt!’ she replied. ‘My sister Agatha was married to your
father!’

The mortification experienced by our hero, in consequence of the ludicrous
incident we have described, was extreme, and it was a few weeks before his
mind recovered its accustomed equanimity. When it did, he resumed his
college studies; but from the time lost, and the still partially unsettled state
of his mind, he failed to pass his examination, and gave up his intention of
qualifying for the ministry in disgust. His aunt’s company soon paid another
visit to the city, and she advised him to try ‘adapting’ French plays. He was
tolerably successful in this, and by her influence, was able to get them

placed with some of the London managers. He then determined to devote
himself entirely to dramatic literature, and being much thrown into the
company of his fair cousin, Miss Andresen, a mutual affection grew up
between them, which culminated in marriage. We understand they live very
happily, although his wife does sometimes joke him on his love-adventure
with his aunt.

MEHALAH.
[This poem is written on the chief character in the novel of the same name.]

Sleep on, Mehalah; let the rude waves beat
Their sullen music in thy deafened ear;
Whether they roar in storm, or whisper peace,
Thou canst not hear.

What matter though the gale in fury rave?
Beneath the surface, all is calm and fair;
Held close by flowers too beauteous for the day,
Thou slumberest there.

Unseen by mortal eye, the ocean sprites
Vie who shall deck thy form with fairest grace,
And many a sea-born flower and waving weed
Adorn thy face.

But when the shadows of descending day
Gleam on the marsh, and fire the western sea,
Thy spirit ’scapes the chains that bind it down,
And rises free.

As vesper chimes grow dimmer and more faint,
And sink to silence, conquered by the storm,
The fishers, hast’ning home to those they love,
Behold thy form,

Thy face so proud, thine eyes so dim and sad,
Thy hair unshackled streaming towards the west,
The crimson ‘Gloriana’ burning bright
Upon thy breast.

But as they gaze, the vision fades away,

Dragged to the depths by iron hand and chain;
The seamew shrieks, and darkness o’er the world
Resumes his reign.
J. B. F.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London,
and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.

All rights reserved.

FOOTNOTES:
[1] Roster, in military language, is the list of persons liable to a certain duty.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S
JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH
SERIES, NO. 153, VOL. III, DECEMBER 4, 1886 ***

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